


Remember Me, I Ask

by HigherMagic



Series: The Horror and the Wild [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom, Polar (2019)
Genre: Bottom Will Graham, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Will Graham, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, M/M, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Prison, Smoking, Top Duncan Vizla | Black Kaiser, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:21:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26415568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigherMagic/pseuds/HigherMagic
Summary: "Part of me was worried you were dead."It's not what he expected to hear, and Will's throat goes tight. The sheath of it is slicked with honey and afterburn, and his fingers flex on the arms of the chair. "You didn't used to let fear of consequences affect you," he replies."Until you."Settled into his life with Duncan, Will is ready to leave everything behind. Until Hannibal breaks out of prison. Will knows his time is limited.
Relationships: Will Graham/Duncan Vizla | Black Kaiser, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter/Duncan Vizla | Black Kaiser
Series: The Horror and the Wild [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1920019
Comments: 87
Kudos: 334





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Twitter: Hannikaisergram?  
> Me: .......oh shit here we go again.
> 
> Title taken from 'The Horror and the Wild' by The Amazing Devil

Will ends up staying for longer than the night. He has so little to his name it's easier to just borrow Duncan's clothes and call it good. Steal the occasional cigarette, take his truck into town and bring him back whiskey and steaks and whatever else he senses Duncan might like.

He knows Duncan does something bad. Will Graham has a fucking type. When he finally figures it out, because he still hasn't learned his fucking lesson and snoops around places he's not supposed to go, he'd watched the other man, caged tiger energy poised to leap, a strange combination of resignation and disbelief in his remaining eye.

Will can't blame him for that. He hid his stuff well.

And he'd laughed. Hysterically, and poured himself three fingers of whiskey and tossed the fake passports and the extra SIM cards on the table and says, "I used to work for the FBI. Shall I be the Juliet to your Romeo?"

That question had almost cost him his life. He knows it did. Duncan has this way of looking at people that's very familiar to Will. But not with hunger. Like an obstacle to be removed. "Or maybe Bonnie to your Clyde," he'd added, as Duncan prowled closer.

Hesitation, then. Duncan's eye narrowed in disbelief. Will still remembers how the cigarette had tasted combined with Will's whiskey when he'd kissed him. "You don't have to worry about me telling," he says, and he's not sure if Duncan, to this day, believe him. He tends to do things like hide the truck keys and only digs out the bare minimum of the road so Will can't run away. There are no phones in the cabin, Will's cell went missing after the first night here and Duncan keeps breaking his SIM cards and switching out burners.

"You're…remarkably comfortable," Duncan had said.

And Will couldn't help laughing again. "Why do you think you remind me so much of him?"

Intrigue. A lingering hand on the scar on Will's belly. _Whoever did this wanted to kill you_. Will shivers when he remembers the look on Duncan's face, curious and sad and…protective. Would he, Will wonders, take it upon himself to do away with the ghost of Will's past? Could he, he wonders. Would he fail?

He thinks of two lions fighting over the carcass of a deer, and the next shiver is not as pleasant.

"I don't want to remind you of him," Duncan says, when it's decided, for the moment, that they won't try to kill each other. Will smiles, he can't help himself, and leans up to press another kiss to the corner of Duncan's mouth. He wants to say there's nothing he can do about that. He wants to say that what's done is done. He wants to ask about Duncan's job. What kind of monsters does he hunt? Maybe Will knows about them, from his previous line of work.

He didn't deal in international cartels and drug lords and murderers beyond the border, but people talk, especially in the FBI where there was a certain status with handling the big boys, dealing with Interpol and Scotland Yard and everyone else who kept the monsters in line.

But Duncan doesn't like to talk about work. He doesn't really talk all that much, which Will likes. The silence in this old, empty cabin is nice. There are no monsters behind the doors, no animals scratching at the walls that just want _out, out_ , want to get _out_. In the blissful, flat silence, there's no friction.

Duncan is out when Jack rolls up and parks in the spot left behind, bare to the concrete under the safe cover of the truck. Will is on the porch, eyeing the melting water, the icicles that grow shorter by the day. Spring is coming, and Will feels the promise of it under his fingernails like crusted blood.

He doesn't smoke often, just enough to sour his meat. He eyes Jack as Jack climbs the stairs to the porch, and he kicks his feet up into the second chair so Jack doesn't have a place to sit. It's petty but Will's allowed to be petty, these days. Duncan indulges all his terrible rough edges, as long as he's quiet about it.

"What is it?" he asks. Jack's expression is grim and sour. He braces himself for awful news. Awful, inevitable, crushing news. Death, perhaps, or an Incident that will call Will back to the fray. He practices in the mirror at night and wonders if he ever smiled so sharply, before.

"Hannibal has escaped."

The words are met with silence. Will hollows his cheeks and sucks the cigarette down to the butt, and flicks it into the snow. Remembers when Duncan did just that, the night they'd met. He lets out his breath mostly through his nose, smoke tickling his upper lip.

"That," he replies with a careful air, "is unfortunate."

"You're hard to track down these days, Will."

"Yet here you are," Will replies. He wants another cigarette, if only to give his hands something to do, but it's almost the end of the pack and he doesn’t have the truck to go get more, and he wants Duncan to have some when he gets home. He looks up at Jack. "If you can find me, so can he," he says, birthing the words stuck in Jack's throat.

He nods, lips thin, brow dark and lowered. Will hopes the guilt of his own failure is eating him alive, clawing at him from the inside out. Will would tear, along the seam of his stomach, but Jack is whole and strong. The thick scarring on the side of his neck won't be opened by stomach acid.

"I wanted to offer you witness protection," Jack says.

 _Liar_.

Will snarls at him, showing his teeth. "Consider the offer respectfully declined," he replies.

Jack likely expected that. There's no surprise on his face, just a single nod and a sour note. He looks down where his car is sitting. "You alone up here?" he asks, in that tone of voice awkward old friends use when they realize that they no longer have anything in common.

Except they do have something in common. A shared nightmare. It's more beautiful to Will than it will ever be to Jack.

"I'm alone up here," he lies. "Living off the land."

Jack nods. He doesn't believe Will, but that's fine. He reaches into his coat pocket and hands Will his card. "If you change your mind." And with that, he leaves, heading down the stairs. Will doesn't remember Jack being so willing to roll over. Maybe he's playing dead.

He huffs and tucks the card away. He doesn't even have a phone to use, when and if he decides to make sure of Jack's phone number. It doesn't matter, he decides.

Duncan hasn't come home by nightfall. Will isn't worried – he'd given Will enough information to imply that he might be gone until the early hours. Local, but a long drive to the border from here. He might have been held up in customs, or the snow might be worse upstate. Will doesn't mind; the silence is deep and dark, and monsters lurk within it.

He sits in Duncan's old worn armchair in the corner of the living room, his eyes on the fire. His teeth clink against the glass and he puts his hand on his stomach, absently petting the raised line of the scar.

The creak of a floorboard makes him tilt his head, and he sighs, letting his lashes lower so that he stares at the world from behind the bars. He finishes his drink and sets it on the floor, tipping his head back. Another creak, another soft whisper of not-silence amidst the crackle and pop of the fire.

A hand goes to his hair, brushing light as a feather, cool as a corpse. It settles, on the back of the chair instead of on Will, as though it doesn't trust itself to touch. Heat emanates from him like a furnace, warming Will's face.

"Part of me was worried you were dead."

It's not what he expected to hear, and Will's throat goes tight. The sheath of it is slicked with honey and afterburn, and his fingers flex on the arms of the chair. "You didn't used to let fear of consequences affect you," he replies.

"Until you." His voice is soft and low, same as Will remembers. That purring Devil on Will's shoulder, always so close and always just out of reach. He looks up. They cut his hair short in prison, and he's wearing ill-fitting clothes that are likely stolen from some unfortunate nobody on the side of the road, buried in muck.

He looks good. Will hates that.

"Did you come to finish the job?" he asks, something stuck in his throat that is not quite fear. Its cousin, maybe, that lurches with lethargy, unfelt for far too long. Will doesn't remember what it feels like to want to die, to embrace it as an inevitable side effect of knowing someone like Doctor Hannibal Lecter.

Hannibal smiles at him, his dark eyes shining with affection. Will knows what affection looks like on men like him, now. He recognizes it as one of those absent, detached things, like a cat will devour its favorite toy and rip it to shreds because it likes playing so much.

The hand on the back of his chair slides down and settles shy of Will's shoulder. His cheek. He fights the urge to turn into it with all his might. Still, his lashes flutter, breath sucked in through too-sharp teeth.

"No, darling," Hannibal murmurs. He leans in and leans down and crouches on his heels, his head lower than Will's now. His other hand flattens, brazen and warm, on Will's exposed wrist. He pushes his sleeves up when the fire roars to feel the heat singe the little hairs. "The possibility of your death made me realize how loathe I was to endure it. I don't want you dead."

The 'dead' part is what Will latches onto. "But you came anyway," he murmurs. "Armed."

He knows how to recognize the shape of a knife in Hannibal's pocket now.

"You're not alone here," Hannibal murmurs, and tilts his head. "How does my surrogate treat you?"

"He hasn't tried to kill me," Will says, not bothering to correct what they both know. A surrogate, yes. Something Will can survive. Fake meat and almond milk because the real stuff made him sick.

"The bar is so low."

Hannibal's smile is wide and sharp and so full of adoration. Duncan doesn't smile like that, not unless Will gets him really drunk and in a really good mood with his mouth or his hands or the tight grip of his ass. It's so much easier to please a predator than a creature that hunts on command, and Will knows the difference now.

Will shivers, and looks away. It's foolish to do so but he trusts that Hannibal, at this point, is genuine when he says he doesn't want to kill Will. Hurt him, yes, those wounds are rarely physical. But when they are, Goddamn.

"Why didn't you tell me about Abigail?" he rasps, eyes on the fire.

"I wanted to surprise you."

"It would have been different if you'd told me," Will says. "All of it, Hannibal, so much of it, was because I thought you'd taken her away from me. We could be…."

Somewhere else. Some _thing_ else.

Hannibal makes a sound, a facsimile of regret Will doesn't believe for a second. His thumb runs around the knot of Will's wrist joint and Will feels the sensation all the way up his arm.

"Was I your first stop?" Will murmurs.

"My only," Hannibal confirms.

Will's lips twitch. "Not Alana? Not Jack?"

"My future rests on your decisions, darling," Hannibal purrs. Will has to look at him, then, how the firelight paints half his face as a golden statue. There are deeper lines around his eyes and mouth, his hair more grey than it used to be. Without his suit of armor he's approachable and kind.

Hannibal takes his hand, and kisses his knuckles even as they curl and go white. "Come with me."

"No," Will says immediately.

Hannibal's eyes flash, but he doesn't look surprised. When did Will become so damn predictable? "If you're attached to your current lover, there are ways around that."

Will laughs. "Killing him?"

"With a single stroke." Hannibal considers him, and then tilts his head. "But I would like to meet him, first."

Will frowns.

"Clearly he has kept you satisfied, in a way I could not. I would be foolish to deny myself the opportunity to learn."

Will stares at him. Another hysterical laugh bubbles like acid, and he swallows it back. He yanks his hand away and pushes himself to his feet. "You're insane," he snarls, and catches Hannibal's shadow approaching him as well. He turns, knowing better than to take his eyes off Hannibal now, shivering as Hannibal prowls towards him and stops a single step away. Lunging distance. Will is better at ranged attacks.

Another flare of light comes in through the parted curtains. Will swallows. Of course Duncan would come home _now_.

Hannibal's head snaps at attention like a dog called to heel. He hums, and walks to the window. He doesn't fear turning his back to Will. Will's fingers curl – he should run, and go outside. Duncan wouldn't question him until they were somewhere safe and Hannibal can't chase them on foot. He always has supplies in his truck and Will isn't attached to anything here.

He could run. He's almost certain Hannibal couldn't catch him before he made it to the truck.

The door opens and slams with a creak, and Hannibal laughs, his hands behind his back. He gives Will a look over his shoulder that is smug and haughty. "Textbook," he murmurs. Will flushes, but can't deny it. He's close enough to the fire that it burns where his skin is bare, worse than normal. Hannibal has a way of plucking at nerve endings until they're raw.

"I wonder," Hannibal muses aloud, "does he even know my name?"

"No," Will spits, clenching his fists.

Hannibal hums again. His eyes follow like a cat's, watching Duncan come up the stairs, booted steps heavy. Will listens as he scuffs his feet on the welcome mat, pauses to retrieve the pack of cigarettes Will left outside.

The door opens and Hannibal steps back, courteous to a fault. Will knows the instant Duncan sees him.

He enters the room a second later, eye flashing to Will. Narrows. His posture is defensive, in a way Will recognizes, but not for himself. That's the surprising part. Duncan's smart, and he knows danger when he sees it, and he knows who's more at risk between him and Will. Will can fight but he has no weapons and Duncan has seen, behind the smiles and the laughs and the fingers of whiskey, just how badly Hannibal is capable of fucking Will up.

One doesn't flee the state and shack up with a killer because they're well-adjusted, after all.

"Good evening," Hannibal greets, as though this is his home and Duncan is a guest. It makes Will's spine crawl uncomfortably. "I hope you'll forgive the intrusion."

Duncan lifts his chin, and, in a particularly on-brand response, grunts.

Hannibal's smile widens. He looks at Will with another smug, knowing expression. Will hates that, hates how he can see the wheels in his head turning. And he's probably right, it's laid out like a Goddamn medical chart:

Big, protective, self-sufficient. Isolated. Quiet. Something perfectly made for a man like Will who experiences the world with the volume on high, ringing in his ears.

Hannibal looks back at Duncan. It's like staring in a funhouse mirror, how different they are, how they hold themselves. Duncan has the posture of a bear, Hannibal a wildcat, both of them big and capable of doing grievous harm, both of them hungry for the same meal.

Will hasn't told Duncan much about Hannibal. That's by design. He regrets that, now, suddenly.

"I'm -."

"I know who you are," Duncan rasps. Will remains frozen in place, not in the middle of them, but equidistant. He and Hannibal would reach Duncan at the same time if Will chose to bolt. "Didn't think we'd meet."

"An experiment that proved, ultimately, fruitless," Hannibal tells him with a smile. He's still holding his hands behind his back, the picture of ease, but for Duncan hidden hands mean hidden weapons, and Will can see him practically vibrating with the urge to reach for his own. Duncan uses guns, he's good with them. Could he pull and cock and fire before Hannibal reached him?

Probably not. And would Will be in the way?

Hannibal shifts his weight and Duncan's hand flexes.

"Stop," Will snaps. They both turn to look at him. "Just…stop."

They tilt their head in the exact same way. How did Will not notice that before.

"You're both equally capable of killing each other," he growls. The thought of losing either of them is uncomfortable. He'd survive it, of course he would, but not in any healthy way. He looks at Hannibal. "I don't want to go with you."

Hannibal smiles, like he knows Will is lying.

"You heard him," Duncan growls, and steps aside so there's a straight line to the door. He gestures through it.

Hannibal lifts his chin. "Surely you wouldn't throw a guest out into the cold?" he purrs. "I don't have a vehicle, and it's much too dangerous to traverse the roads at night."

"Not my problem," Duncan snaps.

It's not his problem. It's Will's problem. Hannibal detests rudeness and if Duncan rejects him as his host, he'll retaliate. And the idea of Hannibal dying of windchill and exposure, of all things, is such a great insult, and feels like poison on his tongue.

He exhales heavily, rubbing his hands over his face. "No," he finally snaps, glaring at the ground. He shakes his head. "No. I'm not standing around to witness this."

He strides to the door, between them like a barrier, their living line in the sand, and grabs his coat, shrugging it on.

"Will -."

"No." Will turns and glares at Duncan, then at Hannibal, over his shoulder. "Figure it out. I'm not playing Hannibal's game and I'm not letting you posture over me like a piece of meat. I'm taking the truck and I'll come back at dawn and either one of you will be dead or gone, or you'll have figured something out that doesn't end in fucking bloodshed."

Duncan frowns, and follows Will when he heads for the door.

"He hurt you," he growls. "He tried to kill you."

"You've thought about it too," Will snaps, meeting his gaze. "Don't deny it."

Duncan presses his lips together, and looks away.

Will sighs. "I'll be back at dawn," he says, and looks over Duncan's shoulder again. Hannibal hasn't moved, is still smiling like this is all going according to his plan. Smug bastard. He looks at Duncan again. "If you kill him…don't get rid of the body."

Duncan frowns, head tilted.

"I need to see it."

Even after everything, he owes Hannibal the honor of being put to use. He'd never forgive himself if Hannibal became just another corpse in a river, washed up on the shore. If he was left to decay, and be food for the worms. No. Will deserves that much.

He knows he doesn't have to make the same request of Hannibal. When their eyes meet, Hannibal inclines his head in another gracious nod, and Will feels sick.

Duncan doesn't answer. Will leaves before he can think better of it. It's neither heartening nor troubling to him that he doesn't hear a gunshot, nor does he see Hannibal moving out of the frame of the window as he climbs into the truck and pulls the keys from beneath the visor.

When he looks up, both of them are staring back at him, side by side. Two against one.

Will shivers, starts the truck, and pulls away.


	2. Chapter 2

Will should call Jack. He knows where Hannibal is, and he has enough cash on him to use a payphone, Jack's number is still in his pocket. He should call Jack and tell him Hannibal is here, and Jack will come get him, and Will and Duncan can move on before anyone asks too many questions.

That is, assuming if Jack came to the cabin, he would find Hannibal still there. Still alive. If Duncan killed him, that could mess things up even though Jack would eat up a self-defense lie like candy. It wouldn't even be a lie. Will knows better than anyone how deadly Hannibal is.

He should call Jack. He doesn't. He goes to a liquor store and drinks in a parking lot and knows that, at any moment, Duncan or Hannibal could die. Thinking of Hannibal dying brings an emotion of both relief and an ache worse than the night he stabbed Will. Losing Duncan is less sharp, but brutal like a kick to his ribs.

He sits and he drinks and he glares out of the windshield. There's a blue flare of lights that pass him at some point. If he got arrested, that would just be the icing on the cake. He laughs into his next swig and feels the burn settling like a dog in front of the fire.

God _damn_ it. He should have known better than to think he could stay here forever. If nothing else, Duncan's job will take him somewhere far away. Will knows he would be left behind if it came to that. He knows because he understands animals like Duncan. Will is good company and another set of eyes on the door, but he's not necessary, Duncan doesn't obsess over him, Duncan doesn't _need_ him.

Hannibal doesn't need him either. The thought stings at Will's skull like a warning rattlesnake. Hannibal doesn't need him, but he wants to need him. He came all the way up here and killed a man for clothing, risked exposure and arrest and freedom to see Will again. He could have gone far away but he didn't because he has always, _always_ , found his way back to Will's sphere of orbit. They are trapped together, two men who cannot live with or without each other.

Will takes another drink. The alcohol is bitter and hurts on the back of his sore throat. It feels like he's been screaming for days. He can't let himself start; he won't stop.

Will…doesn't need either of them. He would survive losing one or both of them. He would. He rebels at his own pragmatism, how he would deal with their bodies, consume them in one final act of worship, and then move on to the next big man with mean hands and shadows in his eyes. Will spent his entire life sampling at the buffet and now he's found his meal of choice.

Dangerous men. Men who could kill him but don't, in the moment, want to. Men to whom he is worth more alive than dead, as company and another set of eyes on the door and an experiment, someone to touch and hurt and control and release.

He takes another drink. His teeth don't feel like they belong to him anymore. It's freezing inside the truck, the engine isn't running, the cold is worming its way into his skull and making his fingers shake. His stomach is so warm from the alcohol, from the promise, the adrenaline.

If Hannibal kills Duncan, Will is going to die, because he'll refuse to go with Hannibal a second time, and his life will be the price of that rejection. He's oddly calm when he considers that. He wonders if Hannibal will reopen the scar, if he will simply drive deeper, or angle his blade up higher to pierce Will's heart.

If Duncan kills Hannibal, then…Hannibal will be dead.

Will closes his eyes, grits his teeth, slams his fist against the steering wheel hard enough his fingers ache from the force. Stuck between a rock and a fucking hard place, a bear and a wildcat that have decided they both have some claim over him. Will is not a man, he is a digression, an entertaining thing that caught their attention. A meal.

Will doesn't have a phone so he can't call anyone. He doesn't know who he would call – not Jack, he can't call Jack, not until he knows the situation. There's no one else in his life who would take his call, he made sure to burn all of those bridges to fucking ash.

He can't call the cabin, either. He'll lose his mind if the wrong man picks up. He doesn't know _who_ is the wrong one. Indecision tears at him and fills his throat with bile and he has to fling the door of the truck open and stumble to a snowbank, emptying the contents of his stomach onto the dirty plowed heap. It's the color of whiskey.

Will wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and grabs a fistful of fresh snow, shoving it into his mouth and spitting it out in a poor man's mouthwash. He does it again, the cold sinking its fangs into him until he's shuddering and clutching the bottle like a lifeline, his mouth so numb he can't stop his teeth chattering, rattling around his skull.

He has to go back. He said he would wait until dawn but he can't stand not knowing. He has always had to look, even when his mind was aflame and his sanity was hanging on by a thread. He has _always_ had to look.

He's way too drunk to drive but that doesn't stop him getting back in the truck, kicking up flurries as he finds the main road and glares at it through hazy eyes. His knuckles are white and the truck slips on thick ice.

But he makes it. The lights are on in the cabin as the hour ticks over to four.

He looks up. There are no silhouettes in the window this time. There's no blood in the snow, no hint of someone coming or going. Someone is dead inside. He's going to walk in there and see it. He will see how it happened. He will see how Duncan drew his gun and shot, before Hannibal could react. He will see how Hannibal lunged and snapped Duncan's wrist, his elbow, sent him slamming against the door. He will see the broken neck and the spilled organs, smell the meat, see how Hannibal took him apart with tender care, preparing a feast for his mate.

He will feel one of them, inside him. Duncan's mind is quiet and warm, a blanket of dominion that Will can't breathe through. Being with him is like being hunted by a bear, knowing it's only a matter of time before Will is killed and devoured.

Hannibal's mind is endless and vast, the entire void of life and death. He is Hades, he is Hellfire. He will burn Will to ashes and grind his bones to dust.

Will clenches his eyes tightly shut, grits his teeth, breathes in. He will die out here in the cold. Maybe that's the best option for him. He hasn't wanted to die for so long he'd forgotten what it felt like, but it welcomes him like an old friend. In the arms of finality, Will's heart races and his stomach roils again.

He opens his eyes, and gets out of the truck. The scent of cigarette smoke greets him as he goes up the stairs like a man to the executioner's block.

He freezes, when he sees Duncan on the porch, the picture of ease, smoking. "You won," he says, breath misting. Is it relief, is it defeat? He can't tell. Duncan eyes him from his perch, and takes another drag. He flicks the cigarette away when it's done and rises to his feet, his shadow cast long and broad towards Will. Will's throat is tight, he can't swallow, he can't breathe. Hannibal is something absolute and endless, to think that he's _dead_ is…

Duncan approaches him, and cups Will's face. "Not quite," he replies. Will blinks up at him, forces himself to bear the quiet, assessing gaze. Duncan is looking for relief, too. He is checking that his victory is what Will wanted, but Will doesn't know what he wanted. He's glad Duncan is not dead, but that price is so heavy to pay.

His words register a moment later, and Will frowns. "Not quite?" he repeats. Duncan nods, and leads Will into the cabin. Will clutches his arm, nails digging in, as the scent of roasting meat washes over him. He gasps, and runs from Duncan, towards the kitchen.

Hannibal turns to him, and gives Will a fond smile. "Hello, Will," he murmurs.

Will catches himself on the side of the door, so that he doesn't fall to his knees. He looks down, head swimming with alcohol and adrenaline, fear and relief, confusion. He hears Duncan approaching him and can't bring himself to move.

"Did I come back too early?" he forces himself to say.

Hannibal's soft laughter brings tears to his eyes. Will sags against the door and sinks to his heels, his head in his hands as he stares at the ground between his feet. Hysteria at the impossible threatens to overwhelm him.

There's a hand in his hair. Then two hands in his hair. Will shudders. "I don't understand."

Hannibal crouches down beside him, and forces their eyes to meet. "Yes you do."

"I don't _comprehend_ ," Will corrects.

Hannibal smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He looks good like that. His smile has always soothed Will, the hint of teeth and gleam of mirth. "You will," he promises. He looks up, to Duncan, and Will doesn't follow his gaze. His eyes are on Hannibal's throat, his jaw, his angular face. How strange it is to see a wildcat bare its neck.

Then, Hannibal looks at him again, and his hand slides to the back of Will's neck. He holds Will still and leans in. Will stiffens when their mouths meet – he's not a cheater, emotions aside – and Duncan is right there. No matter that Hannibal's touch burns him and kissing him feels like coming home. Duncan's hand remains in Will's hair, absently petting like he's watching a favored pet greet a new stray.

Will's mind races, clicking together those similarities, the way Duncan reminds him of Hannibal in ways that he only registered subconsciously. Both of them, large and commanding, relishing control of their environment. Both of them, well-traveled and worldly and shameless killers. Violent, possessive, aware of themselves in a way Will has only ever pretended to be for most of his life.

Both of them, touching Will, so intimately Will loses his mind. He parts his lips, daring Hannibal to deepen the kiss. His invitation is eagerly accepted as Hannibal tastes him, with a confidence and relish that makes Will tremble.

He's been waiting to do this for years. Will can feel how satisfied he is, even with whiskey and chill in Will's mouth. Hannibal's kiss freezes him to ice, melts him to nothing, turns Will to dust motes and firelight. He doesn't realize he's clinging to Hannibal's shoulders until an oven timer beeps, and Hannibal pulls back.

Will can't catch his breath, can barely see through the tears in his eyes. Hannibal's smile is tender, his eyes warm with affection. He places a single chaste kiss to Will's forehead and pushes himself to his feet. "I'll bring it out in a moment."

Duncan's hand tightens in Will's hair, and practically hauls him to his feet. Will stumbles away, led by Duncan back towards the dining room table.

"I don't -." Duncan releases him and turns, as Will pants and stares at him with wide eyes. His mouth is tender, feels bruised from Hannibal's kiss, sensitive and red. His heart is racing and helpless arousal thrums in his veins like poison. "Duncan, I -."

"You gave the option of no bloodshed," Duncan says, lifting his gaze over Will's shoulder, then back. "We decided that one would be best."

Will doesn't understand. If there's no bloodshed, why are they both still here? Why did Duncan let Hannibal kiss him? Why -?

"Are you sending me away with him?" he rasps, because Duncan doesn't need Will. He could, one day, leave forever and neither of them would die from that. Duncan's brows lower, and he shakes his head. "Are you going to leave?"

He shakes his head again, and Will bites back a frustrated sound. "Then what the _fuck_ did you decide?"

Duncan tilts his head. Now that Will has seen them do it, a perfect mimic down to the angle, he can't ignore how much he looks like Hannibal when he does it. Duncan steps close to him, puts a hand on the small of his back and tugs him the final few inches, making Will tip his head back and moan weakly as Duncan fists the collar of his shirt.

When Duncan kisses him, it's hard and it hurts. Will opens himself to it anyway, shivering as his hands find the usual place on Duncan's shoulders, his spine goes lax, he arches closer with the familiar knowledge of repetition and instinct.

Duncan pulls back, and bites down hard on Will's throat, and it clicks.

 _Oh_.

Duncan smirks at the shocked sound Will lets out, and pulls away to gather the dishes to set the dining table, leaving Will static and trembling in the middle of the room. Another bubble of hysteria threatens to well up and burst. There's _no way_ , there's no fucking way they've decided to…cohabitate. To share. He stares at Duncan as the other man moves, comfortable, with not a shred of tension. It seems Will has absorbed it all, siphoning it from both of them, sucking the venom out of the wound.

His fingers clench into fists at his sides.

He flinches when he hears Hannibal enter the room, carrying three plates expertly on his arm and in his hands. Hannibal smiles at him, wide and almost smug, and sets them down. It's a modest offering, some steaks Will bought the other day, green beans and mashed potatoes. Hearty and plain, though Will is sure this was made with the same impeccable skill and flair with which Hannibal always handles food.

He needs a fucking drink.

By the time he has found a glass for what's left of his whiskey, Duncan and Hannibal are seated at the table on either side, leaving the third space open for Will. There are knives and forks, glasses of water and amber alcohol, and not a shred of violent intention in sight. It's so fucking surreal that Will can only come and take his seat.

They begin to eat. Will sees Hannibal eye the table, the dents in the wall, the marks of Will's nails. It's the same table Duncan fucked Will on the first night he came here, and often has since. He blushes at the memory, and how Hannibal can't keep the open delight off his face.

Of course he's delighted. He has Will, and another plaything to toy with, and the promise of a very good story.

Will's mind is reeling, struggling to catch up in the undertow and fight his way back to the surface. He barely tastes the food, though he knows it's delicious. He watches them eat, and drink, keeping their hands to themselves. No assessment, no challenge, he's going to lose his fucking mind if one of them doesn't address the elephant in the room.

To his surprise, Duncan breaks the silence first. He speaks like they were having this conversation when Will came home;

"I don't like that you tried to kill him."

Hannibal hums, lacking repentance, but also lacking pride. "A grave mistake I made in a fit of passion," he replies, and meets Will's eyes. "One I will not make again."

Will believes him, and doesn't know if that makes him stupid or trusting, or just too aware.

Duncan grunts.

Hannibal smiles, coy and wide. "Have you never thought about it?" he murmurs, and Will goes tense. He knows Duncan has. Hannibal will know if Duncan lies.

Duncan considers the question, noisily slurping at his water before he sets the glass down. "Yes," he says. "Will knows a lot."

"Yes," Hannibal agrees. Getting talked about like he's not here is aggravating. Will bites his tongue and forces himself to say nothing. They still need to work some shit out and he's not going to get in the way of that. He'll leave again, if he has to.

Fuck, he doesn't want to, but he will.

"And what do you know?" Hannibal continues. "About Will? About me?"

"Enough," Duncan replies flatly.

"Oh?"

"I read the news." Duncan's gaze flashes to Will, then back to Hannibal. "Not used to working with someone as showy as you." Hannibal laughs quietly. "But I shot down all my high horses decades ago. I don't have any left."

"Just pedestals," Hannibal murmurs.

"One."

Will's skin crawls as Duncan looks at him again.

Hannibal hums, and smiles at Will. "Am I to expect a visit from dear old Uncle Jack?"

"No," Will rasps.

"I'm surprised, I'll admit."

"I didn't know what he would walk into," Will replies defensively. Because he knows he didn't want to call Jack. Hannibal's smile tells Will he knows that, too. "And I don't have a phone here." To that, there is another flash of intrigue in reaction. Will has gotten so used to Duncan's more subtle expressions, it's like a sudden floodlight being around Hannibal again. Will is exposed, out in the open, and knows that the hunter has its sights on him.

"And now?" Hannibal presses.

"You know the answer," Will hisses. He wants to get to his feet, wants to run. He wants to sleep. He wants to keep drinking and find out if kissing one of them will make the other draw a knife. There are so many ways for Will to lose his life in this room.

Duncan makes a soft noise. "Don't push him," he warns.

"Will's and my boundaries have always been subject to negotiation," Hannibal replies, sipping at his water. "Rarely do they have defined lines." He regards Duncan coolly. "It is because I pushed him that you met him at all, I'll have you remember."

Will flinches, and whispers, "Don't fight. Please."

His request settles over the room like a flood of water. The fire burns into his back. Hannibal sighs, and touches Will's cheek. "Oh, Will," he whispers. "You are remarkable."

Will wants to turn his face away. He wants to flee. He wants to nuzzle Hannibal's wrist and welcome his hands anywhere, everywhere. He wants to show Hannibal the scar he left behind. Duncan's hand flattens on Will's wrist, both reassurance and possession. Or maybe, Will thinks as Duncan's thumb brushes his pulse, he's just testing Will's reaction to having Hannibal touch him.

Will cannot hide from that. He told Duncan as much, when they met. Hannibal loves him, as much as he is capable of love. And Will loves him back. It's dark and animal and destined for mutual destruction but he can't help that any more than he could command the sun rise in the west or the world to stop spinning.

And so, he must confess. He meets Hannibal's earnest gaze. "It was good to see you." Hannibal smiles, his thumb brushing Will's red cheek, then sliding down to take his other wrist. They're going to pull him apart.

"Was?" Hannibal murmurs.

"You're not staying." Will can't put conviction into his words. He's not sure they're the truth.

"I'm not sending him away," Duncan says, drawing Will's confused gaze. "And he's not leaving."

"Then what -?"

Duncan pulls, suddenly. Hannibal releases Will and Will stumbles to his feet, and to Duncan. Duncan's big hands flatten on his hips and direct Will to sit in his lap, facing Hannibal across the table. Will's cheeks burn, his hands flattening on the table as Duncan wraps an arm around his waist to hold him steady and slides a second between Will's legs. Despite himself, Will's thighs spread. He's never wanted to refuse Duncan's hands on him and, even with the audience, his body doesn't want to start now.

"Hannibal told me he's curious," Duncan rumbles into his ear, as he rubs Will's cock through his clothes, gently at first and then harder as Will squirms and begins to pant, that simmering arousal flaring under his touches and with Hannibal's predatory gaze on both of them.

"His curiosity leaves scars," Will replies, jaw clenched.

Duncan hums, and kisses his flushed neck. "Mine doesn't," he reminds Will. Will can feel him getting hard too, as Will ruts against him, growing warm and frantic. Duncan's arm tightens. "Does yours?"

Will doesn't know the answer to that, not really. His hands are clean in comparison, but that doesn't mean anything considering the company he keeps.

Hannibal sits forward, and draws Duncan's plate away, so that when Will inevitably collapses and goes boneless, he can do it without obstacle. Hannibal's eyes pin him in place, sliding down Will's body like a physical touch. From the angle of the table, he can't quite see Duncan touching Will, but that hardly matters.

"Yes, Will," Hannibal says, and gives Will a promising, deadly smile. "Does your curiosity leave scars?"

Will's eyes drop to Hannibal's forearms, covered by that ill-fitting shirt. He bares his teeth and whimpers as Duncan squeezes his cock. " _Yes_."

"Then you're in perfect company, darling," Hannibal purrs. Duncan growls quietly against Will's neck, and Will doesn’t fight him, as Duncan's fingers slide up, to the button and zip of his jeans, and undo them both. He doesn't fight as Duncan's big, warm, callused hand sinks beneath his clothes and grips Will bare.

Will falls forward to his elbows, and gasps as Hannibal slides a hand into his hair. He merely holds Will still, his head hanging as Duncan strokes him, until Duncan tugs Will's clothes down and brings his legs together so that Will's ass is exposed and he's hobbled in place. There's nowhere to run.

Will doesn't want to run.

Hannibal kisses Will as Duncan slides spit-wet fingers over his rim, and shoves one inside. He swallows Will's reluctant groan of pleasure, and squeezes the nape of his neck.

"Let me see you, Will," Hannibal whispers. "I want to see. Show me."

Will meets his eyes, and shudders, as Duncan wraps a hand back around his cock, slicks his own, and rises to his feet. Will's eyes close and his head drops down as Duncan sinks inside him with a low, snarling noise, his nails tightening in Will's hip to hold him still. Will has nowhere to run. The bear and wildcat are working together and there's no escape.

Hannibal laces their fingers together, and smiles, wide and proud, as Duncan fucks into him with another brutal thrust, and wrenches the first of many loud, desperate noises from Will's chest. Hannibal kisses Will, and swallows them all.


End file.
